A Healing Hand
by Oaktown fangirl
Summary: Uther benefits when Gwen lends a healing hand to the aging physician Gaius. Third in a series of similarly themed one-shots. Spoilers for S3.


For Guinevere, the day began as so many others had, as weeks had stretched to months, since Morgana was deposed and order returned to Camelot. She made her way each day through the lower town, greeting her friends and neighbors as she went. Sometimes she stopped to inquire about the health or recovery of a neighbor's sick child or elderly parent. She was a second set of eyes and ears in service to Gaius. She worked by his side so much now, and he trusted her implicitly. So the townspeople had come to do likewise when she asked after their sick.

Today she stopped by the stall of a merchant to inquire about his young son who was recovering from an injured leg. The merchant's table was covered with luscious fruit, and surrounded by baskets brimming with cabbages, potatoes, and onions. The boy was doing well and the father called him over to show Gwen the now healing wound as proof. The merchant pressed Gwen to accept the ripest, most fragrant apples from his stall. And though she could have as much fruit as she wanted within the castle walls, she gratefully accepted the offering, as she knew the man had little else to give.

Pulling tight her cloak against the morning chill, her walk ended as it always did, within the castle walls.

* * *

><p>He began the day as he had so many others of late, in the window of his chamber, high above the castle courtyard. He rose so early now—long before the sun. Today was no exception. He watched the sun usher in a new day—orange streaks breaking through dawn's dull gray. Below in the courtyard, Camelot bustled to life. Servants, soldiers, and knights alike set to the day's tasks with purpose and direction.<p>

He waited for one in particular. He watched the courtyard in anticipation of her arrival. Some days she arrived soon after the sun rose. Other days the wait seemed interminable. But she did arrive—today and everyday.

He saw the sun illuminate her hair—a froth of dark curls—before he saw her clearly. Today, she wore her lavender dress, beneath a dark cloak. As she drew closer he could see she carried a basket of fruit and flowers. He shrank back from the window to avoid her observation. He knew he needn't have bothered. She never looked toward his window. But on the off chance that today was the day she did, he did not want her to see him, or to know that he anxiously awaited her arrival. So he withdrew behind the heavy curtains, but not so far that he could not watch her make her way inside the castle proper.

Many times he told her that there was no need for her to continue to live in the lower town. There were chambers available here in the castle, which would allow her to be nearer to Gaius. Many times she deflected his offer, preferring her independence instead. Always between them was the unspoken awareness of the one chamber that all these weeks and months later remained sealed and unused, a constant reminder of the darkness that befell them all.

She had arrived. It was time he dressed.

* * *

><p>As always, she went first to Gaius' chambers to give him what information she could from the lower town, and to collect whatever remedies he needed her to administer to Camelot's sick and injured. Though Gaius had long since grown old, it seemed to Gwen that he had grown markedly so since Morgana's short-lived reign. Perhaps it was being forced into hiding, and then there was his mysterious disappearance from their hiding place that never was really explained. Whatever the reason, Gaius seemed diminished in vitality, though still caring, funny, and wise.<p>

Gwen found him already at his workbench, compounding the last of the remedies for her morning rounds. She greeted him and set at once to putting the remedies into a flat bottom basket. Though there was no longer any need for Gaius to explain the different draughts and salves, Gwen listened patiently as he reiterated what she knew well by now.

As he finished the final draught, and siphoned it carefully into a small vial, he told her, "Deliver this one last. I fear he grows dependent on it. Let him wait." He punctuated this with a wink and a smile. It was the same everyday—the same order with the same or similar explanation.

Gwen knew better than to question the old physician or his motives. "Of course Gaius," was her only response, as she placed the final vial in the basket and set off on her rounds.

* * *

><p>By now, he knew when to expect her. He knew it was vanity that made him want to arrange himself just so when she arrived. He pulled at his shirt, adjusted its ties. When he heard her soft footfall and the sweep of her gown in the corridor, he sat at his worktable, papers and dispatches before him so as to appear that he'd been hard at work, rather than anxiously awaiting her appearance. A moment later, he heard his personal guard stand at attention, ask her the usual questions, before allowing her admittance to his chamber.<p>

* * *

><p>Everyday it was the same. His personal guard would stop her at the door, examine the vial, taste its contents, and then admit her to his presence. Things would never be the same within the walls of Camelot, yet nothing would have protected them from the traitor in their midst. Still, with hindsight, these precautions were wise and long overdue.<p>

She found him as she often did, seated at his worktable, studying a map before him. "Sire," she waited for him to acknowledge her presence.

He waited a beat, as he often did, before looking up at her, as though it was an unexpected interruption. "Ah, Guinevere. You bring Gaius' latest attempt at a remedy I presume."

"Yes sire," she returned.

She closed the doors to his chamber, and approached. Again he marveled at her movement—her quick, light steps and the soft swish of her dress. She rested the basket on the corner of the large wooden table, and removed the small vial, her final delivery of the morning. As she had done many times of late, she placed the vial carefully in his hand, steadying it with hers until the transfer was effectuated. His hands were warm to her cool.

"Warm your hands by the fire," he told her, his voice ever in command though circumstances contradicted it.

She went wordlessly to the fireplace and warmed her hands as bidden. After a morning spent in the cool castle corridors, heat of the fire reached well beyond her hands. Silence stood between them for a moment. As she took in the warmth of the fire, he contemplated her countenance from behind.

Truth be told, he had resented her coming to him in Gaius' stead. In the weeks after Morgana was deposed and he was returned to the throne, he needed more care than Gaius could give, and wanted more company than Arthur could afford. It was then than Gaius had first sent her to him. He resented that Gaius had not or would not come himself, and he told her so. Still, she came again the next day. Her quiet countenance belying the passion he knew still lived inside of her—the passion he knew still burned for the death of her father, the passion he knew still burned for his son.

With each passing day, though he knew not when it occurred, he looked forward to seeing her. She was most animated when he asked about the townsfolk—how they recovered from Morgana's brief but bloody reign. Still, she was not a gossip. She would carefully consider his inquiries about Camelot's nobles, and then answer with circumspection that did her credit. Of Gaius she would speak freely—worrying over the old man's health and wellbeing, and finding him an empathetic listener who shared her concerns.

He felt like a foolish old man—the kind he laughed at in his youth. He wanted more than that she bring his daily draught. He wanted more than just the momentary feel of her sure, steady hands against his. He wanted something more enduring, something more meaningful to exist between them. They were bound together, were they not, by Morgana's betrayal, by those dark, broken days. He pushed aside the memories, and choked back the sadness.

He broached one of the subjects they purposefully avoided by some conspiracy of silence. He asked soberly, "what news from my son?"

She turned slowly to face him, weighing her next words. "I see you've received dispatches, sire," casting her eyes at the scrolls on his table. "Perhaps one is from Prince Arthur."

"I know he sends you word through Sir Leon, Guinevere."

"Sire." It sounded neither like a denial nor a confirmation. So like her, he thought.

The king sighed deeply, "These speak only of the negotiations—who's being difficult, who is eager to strike a deal, of old friends and of adversaries, old and new … but little of …" He gestured with his hand but left his sentence unfinished.

In these moments—these odd, remarkable times that they spent together—Gwen could never be sure what he wanted from her. Certainly, he was changed. No one could endure the cruelty, the steely cold, and above all the betrayal wrought by Morgana and remain unchanged by it. Gwen knew this to be true for her self, so why not him as well? And if Morgana could change from the friend and confidant she had always known to a dark, malevolent sorceress, then surely Uther Pendragon could change for the better. After all, the one constant in the king was his love for Arthur, and with this love as a foundation, surely he must be worthy of redemption.

At length she said, "I believe the prince feels he's been away too long and that the negotiations drag on and on. He worries that our enemies will take advantage of his long absence," she paused and grew wistful, "and he misses Camelot."

"And you," he spoke without scorn or bitterness, but instead mirrored her wistfulness.

Now her tone changed and lightened a shade, "and he wants to know that you are well cared for, sire." She looked pointedly at the vial he still held in his hand, as yet unopened.

He removed the stopper and drank fully the contents of the vial. She approached him and returned the now empty vial to her basket, and turned to leave.

"Guinevere," he stopped her from leaving. She turned back to him.

"Sire?"

Not for the first time since she began coming to him, regret and self-reproach burned in his chest like dual flames. He longed for absolution, yet felt it wrong that a king should ask a servant's forgiveness. All the same, the longing was there.

"Sir Leon rides to rejoin Arthur tomorrow morning. Please send word that I am indeed well cared for."


End file.
